


Ship To Wreck

by GaylamityJane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Discord: Bellamione Cult, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Femslash, Grey!Bellatrix, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sane Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaylamityJane/pseuds/GaylamityJane
Summary: Sixteen months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger works as a fledgling researcher for the DRCMC. She has a journal filled with field notes and grandiose aspirations for magical creatures to have more rights. Now that the war is over, she dreams of a better life for herself, her loved ones, and the wizarding world at large... Until her past quite literally comes back to haunt her in the form of a 28-year-old Bellatrix Black and a prophecy that's more confusing than anything either of them could have fathomed.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 17
Kudos: 116





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first proper fanfic I've written in over ten years, but I recently read a number of amazing time travel stories featuring Bellatrix and Hermione, which heavily inspired me to try my hand at my own Bellamione story! Even though I'm very rusty (especially with dialogue), I tried my best to edit it and reread it multiple times to catch any mistakes! Hopefully it's enjoyable! <3

  
****

**27 September, 1999**

_SNAP!_

The noise is so loud and abrupt that Minerva McGonagall jolts awake. Her wand is at the ready before the rest of her body is, an extension of her arm as she prepares to defend herself. 

Upon inspection, her sleeping quarters reveal nothing out of the ordinary. There are no intruders in sight and she does not notice anything awry; her bookshelves organized in the same alphabetical order she’d placed them, her belongings still stored neatly in her closed wardrobe. However, Minerva is not so easily placated. Having lived through two wizarding wars and the subsequent tragedies caused by them, she is a woman whose age has given way to experience. She knows better than to relax just yet.

Illuminating the staircase of the Headmaster’s (now Headmistress’s) tower, Minerva shuffles down the spiral stone steps in her floor-length dressing gown, green housecoat, and matching slippers. She pays no mind to her appearance, far more preoccupied in hurrying straight to the Headmistress’s Office, where she estimates the noise originated from. 

Similar to her sleeping quarters, nothing looks out of place in the dimly-lit candlelight at first glance. Some portraits of her predecessors remain fast asleep, either unperturbed or uncaring of the noise. Others, meanwhile, furiously shout about the confounded racket, reassuring Minerva that whatever she’d heard isn’t a matter of memories simply playing tricks with her old mind.

Another illuminating spell confirms her suspicions. As the candles brighten to their fullest extent, the lingering shadows are cast away and Minerva is greeted with a sight that nearly stops her blood in its tracks. A very familiar young woman lies in the middle of her office, bloodied and unconscious. Waves of ink black hair fan out across the floor, contrasting pale skin and ruby red lips. Her robes are finely made—crushed velvet lined with glittery silver trim, dyed a color that falls somewhere in between dark purple and a midnight sky. It’s very likely that they had been beautiful before twigs, dirt, and blood had tarnished their appearance.

Minerva doesn’t need to look twice to know who the woman is, but further inspection reveals something clutched tightly in her hand; a glass orb that the Headmistress immediately recognizes from the Hall of Prophecies. It’s slightly smaller than other prophecy records she has seen in her lifetime, but it looks as if its surface has been wiped clean multiple times, allowing it to glow brighter than most of its kind. Delicate streams of liquid light float from within it, casting shades of blue, green, pink, and gold along the walls.

“Albus…” Minerva whispers to the portrait behind her claw-footed desk, not daring to take her eyes (or her wand, for that matter) away from the unconscious figure. “Please wake Poppy and ask her to come to the Headmistress’s Office. I believe she needs to see this.”

Unlike the other portraits, Albus Dumbledore is awake and relatively pensive, staring down at the young woman with quiet contemplation. Yet when assistance is required of him, he does not hesitate, snapping out of his thoughtful haze. “I shall see to it right away, Minerva.”

As Albus’s figure disappears from sight, Minerva approaches the figure with caution. One hand clutches the glowing prophecy record, while the other lies upturned and unresponsive. A rose gold pocket watch rests a few inches away from lax fingers; no doubt one of the few time turners that weren’t discovered by the Ministry when they’d set upon destroying them. Clearly, whatever the witch had been up to required a fair amount of snooping around the Department of Mysteries.

With her wand pointed toward the unconscious figure’s throat, Minerva carefully retrieves the prophecy record from coiled fingers. It’s so incredibly different from the ones she’s seen before, particularly for its color. The orbs found within the Hall of Prophecies tend to glow with the same dull, colorless light. Or worse yet, they remain empty and lifeless, content to sit and collect dust for centuries. This orb is quite unique—its light taking on a distinct mother-of-pearl sheen not unlike a glowing cauldron of Amortentia potion.

The voice that echoes from the orb is that of a female seer, but one who Minerva is not personally acquainted with. It most certainly is not Sybil Trelawney’s voice—far lower in pitch and spoken from the back of the throat in a manner that is more akin to a rumbling purr.

_“Ohhh, how sweet. How bitter. Two halves of one soul fated by unrelenting destiny… One bound by chains long since afflicted will traverse space and time itself… The other will be her opposition… Yes, her very antithesis possesses that which holds the key… Some locks will unlock, but others must be broken for the convergence to be made… A convergence required to replenish what was lost…”_

As the prophecy begins to repeat itself, Minerva unravels the small scroll tied to the record and reads the two names delicately scrawled across it in dark pink ink. For a second time, she finds herself momentarily caught off guard. The glowing orb slips from her fingers and hits the hardwood floor with a loud clunk! Unscathed by the tumble, it follows the natural decline of the floor and rolls back to its original handler.

“Minerva, are you al—” Poppy halts her question and her feet in the doorway. Her fear is evident, eyes wide and mouth agape as she stares down at the unconscious woman. “M-Minerva… Minerva, is that—?”

“Yes, Poppy. It is,” the Headmistress replies, with a voice that is much steadier than her colleague’s. When she finally tears her gaze away from the figure, she straightens her posture. Any lingering traces of surprise are replaced by staunch, firm-lipped discipline. “We must heal her, but we cannot use the Hospital Wing. It is simply too dangerous for the students.”

“I suppose…” Poppy licks her lips, staring down at the figure as if bracing for an attack that doesn’t come. “The third-floor corridor might do? It is still deserted and the students have no use for it, from my understanding.”

“The third-floor corridor will work perfectly,” Minerva agrees, flicking her wand in a quick, fluid motion. As if on command, the unconscious figures rises into the air, levitating several feet above the floor with outstretched limbs. “I understand that I may be asking too much of you, Poppy. But please do your best to heal Miss Lestrange’s wounds and establish a place of rest. There is another pressing matter that needs my attention.”

“Of course.” Poppy eyes the floating figure warily, stepping aside as the witch floats passed her, dripping a slow but steady trail of crimson in her wake. “Although… Do forgive me for asking, but is it more pressing than an injured Bellatrix Lestrange appearing in your office?”

“I’m afraid to say that it is, Poppy,” The Headmistress picks up the glowing prophecy orb once more. She inspects the names on its scroll again, her face contorting into a grim frown as she continues. “I must speak with someone who I fear is directly connected to Miss Lestrange’s sudden appearance, but is not yet aware of it.”

Poppy’s eyes widen. “Who is it, Minerva?”

“Hermione Granger.”


	2. Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets with the reclusive Department Head of DRCMC, only to receive the shock of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I word-vomited nonstop for several hours and this is the end result. Enjoy!!

**28 September, 1999**

The alarm rings at four in the morning, prompting Hermione to leave the warm cocoon of her bedsheets. The first week of autumn has arrived with a bone-deep chill at its back, turning the solid oak floorboards of her flat into sheets of ice. She doesn’t bother showering—instead using the orange glow of her nightstand gaslamp to get dressed in one of countless work outfits that are more or less indistinguishable from each other; a nondescript white tank top, a button-down flannel shirt, cargo field pants, and hiking boots charmed with additional padding for the longer days that she spends on her feet. With only a small amount of struggle, she coaxes her thick bushy hair into a French braid and retrieves her leather-bound journal from where it's safely tucked beneath her mattress.

In retrospect, Hermione’s flat is little more than a broom closet above a muggle tea shop. An open-floor plan makes it appear more spacious than it truly is, with only the small bathroom having four walls to itself. Her “bedroom” is a full-size mattress, nightstand, and dresser squeezed in the far back of the room, leaving just enough space to comfortably fit a working kitchen, card table, and two chairs in the remaining square footage. It may not be the most exquisite flat, but Hermione takes comfort in it. With clever furniture placement and warm paint colors, she finds it cozy rather than cramped; a welcome relief whenever she returns home from months of field research in the farthest corners of the world.

Her first research trip had been particularly noteworthy, constituting three summer months spent in the depths of the Amazon rainforests with a small team of aspiring researchers. They closely followed the breeding patterns of fire slugs, living in small huts and drinking cooling draughts to ensure that they didn’t overheat in the sweat-soaked humidity. Hermione had written a detailed report on the experience, twice as long as requested and with enough eloquence to delight her superiors at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

The praise-filled owl she’d received from her department head, Hamish MacFusty, was all the confirmation Hermione needed to know that she’d done something right. MacFusty is a solitary man who strongly prefers the company of magical creatures to that of his fellow wizards. So much so that he relegates most of his meetings to a slew of overworked division heads and keeps a wide berth between himself and his subordinates. Unless he has reason to discipline those subordinates, of course, which he is notoriously gifted at (and enthusiastic of). Needless to say, Hamish MacFusty is not a man who sent owls simply for the sake of sending owls, especially ones that specifically request the company of their recipients.

To say that Hermione is excited would be akin to saying the sky was blue. Throughout her last few months spent working for the department, she’s poured over countless essay collections and books written by Hamish MacFusty. He is a giant of a man, but his approach to his research is remarkably gentle and his appreciation for the work is quite evident on paper.

Hermione scarfs down two pieces of buttered toast on her way out the door, juggling her breakfast, research journal, wand, and canvas bag as she shuffles down the stairs. A crippling fear of heights prevents her from riding brooms, and the very thought of apparating at such an early hour made her feel slightly queasy when it was presented as an option, so Hamish had been generous enough to set up a portkey for her instead. She just has to make sure that she reaches it in time.

Her decision to live in the muggle London borough of Islington after graduating from Hogwarts had been a conscious one. She’d just been accepted into a once-in-a-lifetime internship with the DRCMC and, logically speaking, it was easier to reach the Ministry when residing in the same city as its headquarters. Not to mention, it allows her parents to visit from her childhood home in nearby Hampstead. Which, in reality, means that her father pops in every once in a blue moon, while her mother had a spare key made for the sole purpose of shoving tupperware containers of leftovers into Hermione’s freezer whenever she so desires.

The more often she shuffles down the crowded streets, the more often Hermione regrets her decision. In retrospect, Islington’s population is unbearably dense. Even now, as she races down the street a mere two hours before sunrise, the footways are congested with leftover pub crawlers determined to experience their very last vestiges of weekend fun. Merlin knows how much worse it will be once everyone else is wide eyed and bushy tailed, rushing around one another to ensure that they aren’t tardy to their first gruelling Monday of the work week.

By the time Hermione reaches Highbury Fields and finds what she’s looking for, the portkey is twitching and jerking erratically. She almost misses it—grabbing onto the rusty tea kettle a mere second before it vanishes, pulling her toward its predetermined destination.

With a series of spins that send her stomach plummeting to her knees, Hermione manages to kick herself up into a standing position just before she lands on a sprawling patch of grass. The rugged landscape doesn’t provide much information in the way of an exact location, but she has read enough of Hamish’s works to recognize the telltale description of his ancestral home. Rocky hills covered with bracken and heather give way to the banks of an expansive loch. A Scottish baronial castle is squeezed into a level acreage between them, facing the freshwater lake as the hill rises up behind it like a protective shield. In the distance, Hermione can even make out the silhouettes of a dozen or so winged-horses; some peacefully sleeping, others grazing at the dew-glistened grasslands as they wait for the sun to rise.

Hamish’s texts often describe this place as so majestic and otherworldly, the grass does not deserve to be trampled upon by any creature with two feet. Now that she’s seen it with her own two eyes, Hermione can’t help but agree.

From atop the craggy hill, a shadow flits across the property, encircling overhead a few times before it descends. In the dim light between moon and sun, it’s difficult to make out the shape until it’s nearly touched the ground—another winged-horse, slightly bigger than the rest, ridden bareback by Hamish MacFusty.

The department head dismounts his mare and stands to his full height, gently caressing her snout with the back of his knuckles. Ironically, the salt-and-pepper hair tucked beneath Hamish’s tweed flat cap is reminiscent of the white and grey speckled pattern marking his mare's coat. It’s oddly endearing to see that they mirror one another in such a way.

“Good morning, Miss Granger,” Hamish greets his guest, his deep baritone voice heavily contrasted by a gentle, lilting Scottish brogue.

“Good morning, Mr. MacFusty,” Hermione smiles, barely managing to contain her excitement. She can’t believe that she’s standing in front of such immense talent.

Unfortunately, her smile isn’t returned. In fact, quite the opposite. Hamish’s neutral expression transforms into a frown, thick grey eyebrows knitting together in something akin to concern. His steely blue eyes stare at her so intensely, it almost feels as if he’s looking directly through her.

“Under different circumstances, I’d give ye a tour of the grounds,” Hamish explains, placing a meaty albeit featherlight palm atop her shoulder so that he can guide her toward the estate. “But a crucial matter has been brought to my attention, and I’m afraid we don’t have the time.”

“Is it something I can help with?” Hermione asks. She does her best to match the wide gait of his long legs, walking at a brisk pace that just borders on sprinting.

“Actually, it’s something that concerns you,” Hamish replies. He opens the double doors of the entrance and leads Hermione through a grand foyer with dark wood paneling and portraits displaying MacFusty ancestors and their beloved creatures.

“Mr. MacFusty,” Hermione struggles to keep up, tripping over a long blue rug bordered by a pattern of golden dragons in mid-flight. She barely catches the movement of their wings as she passes by it. “I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?”

“Naw! It’s nothing like that!” 

If the Scotsman notices her trip, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His hand gives her shoulder a squeeze, and she can’t tell whether it’s meant to be a show of comfort or a silent plea to keep moving. To be on the safe side, Hermione breaks out into a full sprint.

He leads her through the foyer, down a narrow hallway beside the grand staircase, and into an office. More dark wood paneling—this time painted with a handsome cherry stain—is paired with built-in bookshelves and leather couches. A solid desk is centered in the middle of the room, its thick legs ornately carved into detailed, fire-breathing dragons. Behind it, in a high-backed chair, sits none other than Minerva McGonagall. 

“Good morning, Miss Granger.”

“Min—” Hermione clears her throat, a flush taking hold of her cheeks as she corrects herself. “Professor McGonagall. What are you doing here?”

“I’m afraid that there is something I must share with you,” McGonagall replies, frowning in a manner that isn’t dissimilar to Hamish. Both contain more concern than Hermione can process. The headmistress gestures to the chair across from her. “Please.”

With her own frown in place, Hermione takes the proffered seat, grasping its arms to keep herself from fidgeting like a child. She can’t help but feel as if she’s a schoolgirl all over again.

“Has… something happened to Harry?” she asks, her mind already traveling to all of the worse case scenarios. “Or Ron? Or my parents?”

McGonagall shakes her head. “I can assure you, Miss Granger, they are all perfectly healthy.” And yet, the color in her face drains ever so slightly as she continues. “This matter actually concerns… Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Almost against her will, Hermione gulps at the name. She licks her lips, swallowing down the shiver of fear that threatens to take hold. “Bellatrix?” she asks. “But Bellatrix is—… I mean, she was—… Mrs. Weasley—…” With a small sigh, she pauses for a moment to regain her bearings. And then she tries again. “What matter that concerns Bellatrix Lestrange could concern me?”

McGonagall raises her head, staring somewhere behind Hermione. She says something in Gaelic, something Hermione doesn’t quite catch. Whatever it is, it prompts Hamish to awkwardly clear his throat and murmur something about tea in the midst of tragedy. Which, naturally, doesn’t make Hermione feel any more prepared to receive whatever news she’s about to be given.

Once the two of them are alone, McGonagall slides a parchment wrapped package across the dragon desk. There is no box or tag to denote who it’s from, which leads Hermione to suspect that it’s only wrapped to avoid being seen by prying eyes. She unwraps it carefully, but only finds herself more confused when she discovers that it’s… a prophecy record?

“What is this?” Hermione asks, even as she grasps the shiny glass orb between her fingers. For a moment, she marvels at its gleaming mother-of-pearl sheen. But as she listens to the recorded seer, her brief fascination quickly gives way to befuddlement. The sentences are garbled and fairly inconsistent, half-segments blending into one another. When she reads her own name written beside Bellatrix’s, her befuddlement grows. “What… What does this mean?”

“Miss Granger…” McGonagall pauses, as if mulling over how to phrase her response. “I should begin by stating that this type of magic is very rare and even more mysterious. I can only speak for our current understanding of it, which admittedly, is quite small. We know that it has existed since the dawn of time, and that it only occurs once every century.”

Hermione shuffles through the catalogues of her mental repertoire, attempting to recall whether or not she’s ever heard of such magic. Unfortunately, she suspects that it could be a number of things and she isn’t quite certain of any of them. “Does this magic have a name, Professor?”

“Yes,” McGonagall replies. “The Ministry refers to it as geminae animarum.”

“I… don’t believe I’ve ever heard of… of geminae animarum before.” Hermione frowns. She inwardly repeats the phrase, translating it to herself. Geminae animarum… Twin souls?

“I’m afraid that you haven’t,” McGonagall says. “Its rarity assures that it cannot be found in books that are accessible to the public. Unfortunately, the Department of Mysteries keeps every published work in their own archives, and adamantly refuses to lend them to anyone who is not an Unspeakable. Not even the Minister of Magic himself!” This last bit is followed by a frustrated huff, hinting that McGonagall has already tried (and failed) to get her hands on one of these informational texts.

Hermione tries to tread lightly so that she doesn’t ruffle the old witch’s feathers any further. “Professor… what does this mysterious magic have to do with Bellatrix and I?”

McGonagall adjusts her spectacles. “Yes, well… This is where I implore you to take everything I have just stated into mind. What I am about to tell you is not an easy weight to carry, Miss Granger. This I can promise you.”

“It’s okay, Professor. I will understand.” Hermione nods, although she finds herself significantly more hesitant to learn the truth. The headmistress’s words do not sound like they will bode very well for her.

“It is rather complicated to explain, but it would seem that Miss Lestrange and yourself are… connected through geminae animarum,” McGonagall begins, choosing her words rather carefully. “Your souls are entwined. Two halves of one whole, as the prophecy stated.”

Hermione frowns. “But… Professor… How can my soul be entwined to someone like Bellatrix Lestrange? She… She was a cold-blooded murderer. She tortured Neville’s parents and killed countless muggles. They say that she spent so much time in Azkaban, her soul barely existed. Some even claim it didn’t exist at all—that her fanatic obsession with Voldemort somehow kept her alive.”

“While I empathize with your disbelief, Miss Granger, I will say that Bellatrix Lestrange was a… very complicated witch,” McGonagall explains. “You are correct. Your familiarity with her was when she did have very little soul, nevermind sanity, left intact. But there had been a time, before her thirteen years in Azkaban, when she was a multifaceted individual. She did not have an easy childhood, and one could argue that her venture into womanhood was much worse. And although I cannot begin to understand the decisions Miss Lestrange made during the First Wizarding War, I have no doubt that they were made for a multitude of reasons.”

Hermione allows her professor’s words to sink in, attempting to place herself at the same level of empathy. It isn’t necessarily difficult when she considers the differences in Bellatrix’s character that must have been present between the First and Second Wizarding War. However, as her fingertips brush the scarred lettering on her forearm, she’s reminded of who they’re referring. Soul or no soul, sanity or no sanity, Bellatrix still tortured her. Still permanently marked her. Still became a Death Eater and sealed her own fate long before the Dementors could be blamed.

“Be that as it may, Professor… I still don’t think I quite understand. How is it possible for my soul to be entwined to someone who is dead?”

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall replies, thin lips pinching into a line. Once again, her face has taken on an expression of concern. Some might even view it as sadness. As if she’s the one who is sealing Hermione’s fate. “The Bellatrix of our time is most definitely deceased, yes.”

Hermione releases a breath, shoulders sagging in relief. She tugs the sleeves of her flannel over her marred forearm. Thank Merlin for that.

“However, I deeply regret to inform you that the Bellatrix from before is very much alive.”

“Well of course, but…”

“Miss Granger. She is alive and in our time.” 

Ice cold shock trickles down Hermione’s spine. She feels as if she’s been submerged into the Arctic Ocean, the muscles of her chest squeezing and tightening. How is that possible? The time turners were meant to be destroyed by the Ministry. And even if they weren’t… What reason would Bellatrix have to travel to their time?

“I…”

“Miss Granger…”

“I—I don’t…”

“Miss Granger?”

There are hundreds of other questions swimming through Hermione’s head. Questions regarding Bellatrix, geminae animarum, the prophecy record, and what all of it means. They race to the forefront of her mind so quickly, Hermione’s tongue can’t form the syllables to ask them outloud.

The concerned frown of McGonagall’s face becomes fuzzy and distorted—as if Hermione really has been plunged into the unforgiving depths of frigid water, and can only view the Headmistress from beneath its surface. The kaleidoscope image of McGonagall rises to a stand, but whatever she’s saying is muffled and distant.

Hermione succumbs to the darkness before she can make it out.


End file.
